Dawson Filter as He Relates to Clams

“Rakes are nothing but farcical little posts for my fickle lanky hands.” Dawson Filter said, in part to himself, in part to the parking meter outside the breakfast and midday snack restaurant at which he intended to eat a midday snack. For a brief moment, Dawson questioned the necessity of food; but this thought was interrupted when he realized that a large, gold-plated man was beginning to place him in a burlap sack. Perturbed by this development in his day, Dawson squealed some nonsense about his rights, followed by “Who are you and/or what are you doing with the scruff of my neck?”

“I’m a just an old bloke trying to have some fun on his last day before retirement.” Said the old bloke trying to have some fun on his last day before retirement.

“Fun’s not legal when I don’t like it, you goon!” Dawson replied, lips pursed and heart beating.

“Oh, go shake it up, you surprisingly literate literate box of barns.” The old bloke trying to have some fun on his last day before retirement said, eyeing the crossword puzzle propped between Dawson’s left arm and torso.

“Well I most probably will! Maybe I’ll start by ordering like, twelve midday snacks and mashin’ ’em up until it’s like, a full meal, eating it, and feel smug about my ability to change the game!” Dawson promptly responded. He proceeded to walk into the restaurant, sniff twice, and sit down. A waitress came to take his order some time later; and you can’t make me tell you what it was. Reclining in his chair, Dawson, or Dodecadawson, as he liked to call himself, took a bite out of the first and third of his twelve orders of clams, and began to fill out his crossword puzzle. He was quite pleased with himself when he discovered that his knowledge of porpoise anatomy was finally being put to use. His pleasure was cut short; however, when he saw that 56 down was an example of a thing to which he had no response.

“The true meaning of feelings.” It read. 241 letters. The 132nd was “A”, assuming that Mary-Kate was the first born of the Olsen twins. (She wasn’t, but it was of little consequence, as Dawson Filter was taught as a young boy that the “M” in Mary is invisible.)

“Oi, that’s a tougher sort of one.” Mumbled Dawson, in a voice his uncle Walden taught him. He waved down his waiter, whose eyes looked remarkably like Art Garfunkel’s; and soon after, the waiter came to him.”

“The bill?” The waiter said, pronouncing “bill” with nine more syllables than would traditionally be thought possible.

“Nay. Or no, sorry, or however I can convey to you that I don’t feel like paying just yet. Or, you know what: it doesn’t make a whole wack-load of difference when I pay, does it?” Said Dawson, slapping down a six dollar bill. “Anyway, what I wanted to ask was: would you” he paused for a second to read the young man’s name-tag “Sylvester, like to join me on a lengthy, arguably epic, quest to find the true meaning of feelings?”

“Would it be longer than six weeks?”

“If I had to guess.”

“Would I ever! I just wanted to know, ’cause my great-uncle’s going to be dealing out everybody’s inheritance; and I want nothing to do with his blood-money. What’s your best name?”

“Dodecadawson” Dawson replied, and as they turned their heads more and more to the left, he and Sylvester had a moment; and knew that their lives would be marginally different.

This post also makes me feel nostalgic for a time when my only concern was whether or not the stranger squirming in my gold plated hands would fit in my burlap sack. In those days, I was just kind of a jerk. Now, my character has developed- against my will, I might add- into some sort of time and space travelling secret organization member. I’ve graduated from jerk to interplanetary criminal. And furthermore, I must- once again- look over my shoulder for the JRM. Woe is me, how did it come to this?!

I miss my wife, Mirva Rubblefish (nee Yaktooth) and my blind dog, Milverton. I do hope I see them again. If I can ever return to my old life, I swear I will never put another person in any kind of sack.

Oh Mighty and Terrible Kipfer, you loathsome, bespectacled pile of stinky teenager, won’t you kindly return me to the days before I ever laid eyes and hands on Dawson Filter and his ridiculous crossing words?

If you wish to exit the story, simply change your name. I shall continue to write of the misdoings of Benedict Oakley/Wayne Rubblefish, and he shall no longer be you. I never write about roses of other names.

Well, I tried that, didn’t I? I was happily Benedict Oakley until you came along and revealed my Wayne Rubblefish-ness to the world. Nevertheless, you have a point. I am changing my name…as you know it. You shall, from this moment on, know me as Horace Beardscrubber. Horace is yours. You may do with him as you please. Wayne Rubblefish is returning to Earth, leaving fiction, and taking an army of horn poachers to the Javanese islands to face the JRM and settle this once and for all.

I’m sorry, Wayne, but you’ve misunderstood me. Wayne Rubblefish is mine. I shall never write of Horace. You were ment to take him as yourself and run, but all you’ve done is given yourself fully to the man I committed to antagony. You have my condolences.